


Disarmed

by DragonTail



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:04:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As humanity begins to rebuild following the events of <i>Transformers: Dark of the Moon</i>, Optimus Prime tries to make sense of his shattered history and view of the universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disarmed

Sam called it a “service” – a ceremony by which humans mark a traumatic event and mourn those who were lost. Carly said it was an occasion for the grieving to comfort one another and lessen their shared pain. Director Mearing asked Bumblebee, Ratchet and I to participate, convinced it would “boost our stock” with the human race. Lieutenant Colonel Lennox said this is “what soldiers do”, especially in the wake of such devastation.

I am unconvinced. There were no “services” on Cybertron.

A week has passed. Days of toil and rebuilding have served only to heighten our despair. Time has made a mockery of those efforts. The hard work of man and machine has made little discernible difference between the city now and the city then, when missiles flew, buildings crumbled and, at my feet, lay the body of…

I push the thought away.

For seven days it has seemed like every chunk of rubble, every overturned car, hides another human corpse. Simmons asked, almost rhetorically, if we would “ever know” the final death toll. I think back to the massacres I saw on Cybertron and know we will not.

Thousands of humans have gathered for the service. The crowd encompasses most of this planet’s varied ethnicities and cultures. I see children too young to understand the event standing alongside adults too old to attend unassisted. Such diversity is rare in the universe; it is rarer still to see such differing people bound by a common thread.

Simmons is nearby, still in his wheelchair. Mearing is by his side, as is Lennox. Sam and Carly stand a little way back, flanked as always by Bumblebee. I doubt he will ever let the pair out of his sight again. So much larger than his friends, Bumblebee nonetheless apes their posture and mannerisms. His time amongst the humans has changed him. He has, as Lennox once said, gone “off the reservation” and become more Earthling than Autobot. I am not sure whether or not to be concerned by this… _evolution_.

My ruined right shoulder flexes uncomfortably, and I clutch at it. My processor has yet to account for the lost limb. Ratchet stiffens at my side. I’m sure he longs to repair the damage, but I will not allow it. Not yet. I would feel uncomfortable being whole, being “fixed”, when my adopted home is still so grievously wounded. Director Mearing agreed this was “good PR”, but such as not my intent. My outward state is an accurate reflection of my inner self.

The service begins. Music is played by a band. It is another human custom I find odd and intriguing. The denizens of this planet communicate in such different ways. I have come to believe the combination of words and tonally-arranged sound fragments best evokes the oft-conflicted, highly-emotional human mindset. For all our technological advancements, my race never created something like music. We never formulated such a fitting way to describe and define ourselves. Music is like an Autobot body: adaptable to any and every situation.

I am suddenly lost in memory. On one of our earliest days here I stood atop a hill, broadcasting a message to the stars. My mechs surrounded me, hiding their true natures within vehicular disguises. Sam and Mikaela lay atop Bumblebee, listening as his radio played.

_In this farewell, there’s no blood, there’s no alibi_  
 _‘Cause I’ve drawn regret from the truth of a thousand lies_

“A thousand lies”. An apt description of the forces that shaped my life.

A human steps to the podium on my left and takes the microphone. He is a priest – a representative of one of Earth’s many religions. Unlike us, humans do not know how their race was born. Some subscribe to a creationist theory, attached to which is a system of moral laws. They promise eternal reward for the diligent. Out of that reward grows faith and, from that, comfort. For the reasons Carly explained, religious leaders are therefore welcome at “services”.

This human – elderly, grey hair and glasses –speaks with a wavering voice. His accent is that of the city around us; a survivor, no doubt wondering how and why he has been spared. The priest perseveres through his trauma and tells the crowd of the “father and the son” who watch over them.

I know of fathers and sons.

Did you ever truly understand me, Sentinel Prime? On the day you summoned me, a lowly soldier, from that battlefield and asked me to learn at your side, did you know the type of mech you had chosen? I look back now, armed with hindsight, and divine your true intent. I _frightened_ you, didn’t I? To you, words like “freedom” and “justice” were concepts that inspired the masses when selectively applied. You knew I believed in the immutable nature of such things. And so you kept me close, like a naïve student. That way, the masses would never compare us and see the fallacy inherent in you.

You tried the same with Megatron, but for different reasons. He was ambitious, violent and driven. You knew that, if left unchecked, Megatron would not only overthrow you but also win popular support as he went. For you to maintain control of Cybertron, both Megatron and I had to be _tamed_. What did you promise him, Sentinel? Did you promise Megatron he would be the next Prime?

I am sure you did. Why else would he turn so viciously, so savagely, against us? When you spurned Megatron’s request for more troops, when you denied him access to the Allspark’s dwindling reserves for that purpose, you betrayed his trust. Worse, you tricked me into doing the same – into siding with you against the one I called “brother”. And when Megatron put entire cities to the torch, you never once moved to ease my guilt. You never shouldered responsibility for your actions. It suited your purposes more to have me cowed and weighed down by self-recrimination. You didn’t want me to ask why my dearest friend had become obsessed with personally ending my life.

He had been twisted by the Fallen; I know that now. Manipulated by his master as surely as I was by mine. You duped me, Sentinel. For thousands of years I fought to end Megatron’s tyranny. I stood by my oath, never wavering, as friends were killed and innocents slaughtered. I risked body and spark to reclaim territories and boost morale, asking more of my Autobots than any commander should. I led from the front and by example. My conflict with Megatron came to define me. We were enemies, eternal and near legendary, and only one could survive our feud. All that time I spent facing forward – spent confronting the enemy head on – blinded me to what you were doing behind my back.

On the day you betrayed us, Sentinel, did you know what I know now? That Megatron desired my death because it would free the Fallen from his chains? That Earth boasted not only a solar harvester but also legions of Seekers, scouring for its key? That Megatron and the Fallen had a plan to revitalise Cybertron at the cost of another living world?

Again, I am sure you did. Why else build the space bridge? You claimed it would teleport troops, but that was another lie. Its sole purpose was to link our world with Earth and the solar harvester. Cybertron would be revitalised and humanity – so deeply hated by the Fallen – would become a slave race. “Freedom is the right of all sentient beings”, indeed. You were only too willing to sacrifice Earth and me if it maintained your grip on the planet you loved.

That is why you ordered us to attack the Decepticons instead of protecting _The Ark_. That is why Megatron led a simultaneous assault upon our positions. You needed _utter chaos_ to mask your latest, greatest manipulation. But it backfired, didn’t it? The ordinance loosed that day shook Cybertron to its core and accidentally propelled the Allspark into space. A slave to his obsession, Megatron took off after it. You must have done the same, heedless of the Deception batteries firing upon _The Ark_. For your hubris and trickery, you shared the same fate as Megatron: you were lost in space.

So were we. The Autobots lost the war and Cybertron. Under my leadership we became a nomad race, searching every star for the Allspark. I blamed myself for our fate. I questioned my abilities and my choices, convinced you would have won that final battle. I spent thousands of years berating myself for my failures, for being a poor leader, for being unable to live up to your example. Compounding my sins, I loosed you upon the universe again the very moment I found you. What a fool I was.

Ironhide died because of my stupidity. Humans were massacred because of my blindness. And Cybertron… Cybertron has been annihilated. Damn you for that, Sentinel. Damn you for forcing the Autobots to choose between Cybertron and Earth. You dared mock me for “not making the hard choices”? Tell me of a decision greater, of more import, than which home lives and which dies!

The Fallen orphaned me twice. Megatron ruined my world, my friends and my life. But you, Sentinel: only you have succeeded in disarming me.

There is a squeal of feedback. The human priest has toppled on stage, overwhelmed by emotion. I watch as Bumblebee and the others move to help him. The old man waves them off, determined to stand on his own two feet. “I want to finish,” he says pointedly to Bumblebee, moving jerkily toward the podium. “I _have_ to finish.”

Another memory: Ironhide calling humans “a primitive and violent race”, and me asking “were we so different?”. I was wrong. We, the Autobots, still are a primitive and violent race. Humans adapt to tragedy and torment. They make it a part of their culture, devise means by which to deal with it, and then they move on. By contrast, we have spent thousands of years simply _reacting_ to betrayal. We are wounded animals, lashing out in all directions, desperate to stave off more pain. Our bodies may change but our mindset has remained static.

It is not just my fate that was shaped by a thousand lies. Every Autobot, every Decepticon, is the victim of the same manipulations. The Fallen knocked our race off-course. Sentinel caused it to stagnate, while Megatron defiled it. Who knows what the Autobots could have become, free of the nefarious influence of those three mechs?

“Time I find out,” I say softly.

I see Ratchet’s head swivel toward me, but I do not acknowledge him. He does not know those were my final words to the demented carcass that was once Megatron. Right up to his last moment, my old enemy thought only of our home world and his own power. He spent centuries convinced my death would usher in a new age for Cybertron. All at once I realise it is _his_ demise that signifies a new era in Autobot history.

For the first time in more than 19,000 years, we can be masters of our own destiny… provided we have the courage and will to _seize the opportunity for ourselves_. We have all lost so much and, yes, we have become an endangered species. We cannot let that breed fear in us, as it did Sentinel Prime. We cannot fall back into clawing and scratching for a facsimile of what _was_. Like Bumblebee, we must embrace our new world and let it change us, enhance and upgrade us. We must allow ourselves to be _transformed_.

_For what I’ve done, I start again_  
 _And whatever pain may come, today this ends_  
 _I’m forgiving what I’ve done_

Music from the past fills my mind once more. If the Autobots are to change, then I must lead by example. No more will I allow myself to be manipulated by outside forces. No more will I suffer the schemes of others, the betrayal of friends, the trickery of enemies. From this day forth, whatever decisions I make – whether they end in success of failure – will be my own. I will have Ratchet fix my arm as a reminder, a symbol of this vow. As I am remade on the outside, so too I am altered on the inside: never again will I be disarmed.

The band strikes up as the service is brought to a close. White avian creatures called “doves” soar past us in a moment of symbolism. Humans in the crowd turn to one another and embrace. Carly stoops to rest her head on Sam’s shoulder, and I notice Simmons and Mearing surreptitiously brush hands. Lennox is squinting, and I wonder if he is arresting an emotional response. Bumblebee’s chest plate and shoulders heave in an approximation of a deep human sigh.

There were no “services” on Cybertron. The longer I watch the actions of the humans around me… of my friends and allies… the more I realise we Autobots are lesser for it.

That is going to change. I will make sure of it.


End file.
